The tool shed
The saga I am about to share begins with a five-year search for a particular Streamline Moderne-era travel trailer manufactured by the long-dead Spartan Aircraft Company of Tulsa, Ok. If you know anything about these stunning trailers, you'll know that J Paul Getty owned Spartan Aircraft and was producing war planes and upscale private planes for the well-heeled called the Spartan Executive. Think of a Lear Jet of its era and you get the idea. Anyhow, Getty was smart enough to realize that when WWII ended, the demand for war planes would end and GIs would be returning home. What better than put all of that aircraft grade aluminum to use and produce travel trailers that were lightweight and aerodynamic and sell them to a burgeoning populace of Americans that were mobilizing now that interstate highways were coming into their own?
I was restoring a 1953 Southland Runabout -- a tiny 13-foot "canned ham" trailer when I spotted a photo of my first Spartan Manor. The wraparound Lexan windows revealed a cozy interior with red countertops and glowing woodwork. I'd never seen anything quite like it. I knew it wasn't an Airstream and so I began to read everything I could about these so-called silver palaces. I began searching online every morning and every night on vintage trailer sites, Facebook and Craigslist. I wanted a 25-footer with a single axle, a manageable and sought-after size. But they were always 2,500 miles away or they had no title or the frame was rusted or the body was damaged beyond repair. Until a Saturday night about three weeks ago when I spotted my dream trailer only fifty miles away, moldering in the backyard of an elderly couple who bought the Manor in 1983 and parked it in the backyard to serve as a tool shed.
The interior was mostly gone, save for a few cupboards and a few wall and ceiling panels. The tires melting into the ground, the hitch coupler corroded into something unidentifiable. But the skins were straight and the undercarriage crusty but solid. I bid on the trailer sight unseen, figuring that someone would outbid me when the auction ended in the middle of the night. The next morning I slipped my ipad under the covers and logged in. "You've won this item," read the ebay listing. I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. What have I gotten myself into this time? I swore I wouldn't tackle something this large after spending a year of my life restoring the Southland, which had been a basket case when I dragged it home.
I spent three days trying to figure out how to get the Spartan home, scouring junkyards for a pair of rims that would replace the dangerous "split rims" that no tire store would dare touch (they were know for exploding during tire changes, sometime killing or maiming the victim tasked with change the tire). I greased the bearing on site after removing rodent and spider nests from the hubs. I replaced the old crusty hitch with a new one from Harbor Freight and beefed up the tongue with two chunks of angle iron from a local metal shop. But I still had no rims.
